Dirty
by dharmamonkey
Summary: Brennan finds herself helpless to resist anthropological inevitability when it takes the form of one very dirty, very sweaty Seeley J. Booth. Angst- and spoiler-free. Future fic, set post-S8.
1. Chapter 1

**Dirty**

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**By:** dharmamonkey  
**Rated:** M  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own jack. I am, however, interested in renting Booth. A five-hour minimum would apply.

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**A/N: **_This story is a very rare thing for me—a story told in Brennan first-person point of view. I hope you like it._

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**Chapter One**

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I have a confession to make.

I suppose I should begin by saying that when I first started working with Booth, I found it rather amusing that he would sometimes go a day or two without shaving. Well, it was more than amusing—it was actually rather puzzling to me that he would invest in an $800 Merino wool suit, a $200 pair of black Cole Haan wingtips, a $150 pair of Ray-Ban aviator-style sunglasses and a $200 Hermes silk tie, and then go out with a day or two's worth of stubble on his face. It never made any sense to me that he would spend a considerable sum of money on high-quality men's fashion and then go out looking like he'd just rolled out of bed on a Sunday afternoon after a late night of drinking the night before.

Now, the foregoing is not a complaint. The fact is, I do find his stubble curiously attractive, whether he's in a coat and tie or a nearly-threadbare old T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of one of his beloved sports teams. I know, from a purely anthropological and biological standpoint, it is perfectly natural—I'd daresay expected—that I would respond to such markers of masculinity: his narrow hips, his broad shoulders, his big, veiny hands with their thick, stubby fingers, his deep voice and his correspondingly very prominent Adam's apple, and of course, his facial hair. I will readily admit that I find all of those features to be highly arousing, including his stubble.

I'm not even surprised or, for that matter, embarrassed to admit that I find the smell of his sweat arousing. Perhaps that's the easiest of all of these to justify or explain from a biological standpoint. It is fairly well-established in the scientific literature that the vomeronasal organ contains sensory neurons that detect pheromones, and that human females respond to the pheromones of human males (and _vice versa_). So when I inhale the scent of Booth's sweat, whether it's after he's come back from his morning jog, or after mowing our lawn, or during sex, I react viscerally to that smell. Or, to put it in the vernacular, it turns me on.

There. I said it. Booth's sweat turns me on. And so does his stubble. When I see him come in from mowing the grass on a Sunday afternoon, having not shaved since Friday morning and with his old ratty Flyers T-shirt soaked through with sweat as it clings to his chest and back, I will admit that I want to jump him, to rip that sweaty T-shirt off of him, yank his jeans down and taste every bit of that tangy, salty sweat on his skin as I work my way down from his highly-developed, well-toned abdominal muscles to his stiffening cock.

Furthermore, I will admit that this actual scenario has played out more than once—often enough, in fact, that I seldom hear Booth complaining anymore about having to mow the lawn, because he knows that there is a very high probability that he will get laid afterwards. In a way, it's a perfect example of the principle of conditioned reflex. I suspect that even the thought of the mechanical roar of the lawnmower's motor starting is enough to get Booth slightly aroused in anticipation of what he has taken to calling his "lawn boy's reward." I suspect this because whenever I hear him pull the ripcord on the lawnmower, I feel my skin flush and a pulse of wetness between my legs.

So, that said, it should not have surprised me that I reacted the way I did last Saturday afternoon when I went into the garage while Booth was working on his "hobby car," a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. He had the front of the car hoisted up on a jack and was laying on his back on what he told me was called a "creeper" (although the device looks to me like a giant skateboard made of injection-molded plastic). He was working on something on the underside of the engine compartment—he had explained to me once why this particular car fascinated him, which had something to do with the particular 454 cubic inch, eight-cylinder engine that it had, _et cetera_—and, in any event, he must have heard me come into the garage because as soon as I stepped out onto the concrete floor, he planted his feet flat on the floor, drew his knees up and slid forward on his creeper.

What I saw left me a bit breathless for a few moments.

He was wearing cut-off shorts and an old pair of running shoes, and I must say that the particular angle that I was standing at vis-à-vis his position gave me quite a nice view, not only of his muscular calves and thighs (and the curly dark hair that covers them—while Booth has very little body hair on his upper body, he has an above-average quantity of hair on his lower extremities, which I always found odd but also strangely attractive), but also, on account of the angle and the loose fit of his shorts and boxers, of his genitals.

But, despite all that, that was not the reason I nearly dropped the bottle of Gatorade I'd brought out for him. No, what really got me was what I saw when the full length of his body emerged from out from underneath that car.

Booth's hands, arms, shoulders and face were smeared with varying amounts of dirt and automotive grease. His hands—his big, strong, thick-fingered, veiny hands—were nearly black as he reached down and wiped them on his cut-off jean shorts. His forearms were streaked with dark greasy marks. The white tank T-shirt he was wearing was similarly soiled. As soon as he was free of the undercarriage and bumper of the Chevelle, he sat up on his rolling workbench and smiled at me. That was what did me in: that big, toothy grin of his, his teeth bright and white and gleaming back at me even though his face, like the rest of him, was covered with sweat and streaked in a couple of places with dirt and grease that found their way there, I could only imagine, when he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his grease-smeared forearm.

He was filthy—absolutely and completely filthy. While the rational part of my brain told me that the substances, including industrial lubricants, the dusty remnants of rubber seals and the residue of automotive solvents, with which he was covered had carcinogenic properties, the more primitive part of my brain (the part of my brain that was undoubtedly in control at that time) told me that what sat before me was a perfect specimen of human masculinity, and all I wanted to do at that point was drag him inside and up to our bedroom so he could fuck me senseless with that dirty, greasy, sweaty, sexy body of his.

"Bones?" he said loudly, snapping his fingers to get my attention. He'd said something to me, but I'd missed it in the haze of hormones that washed over me the second I saw him roll out from under that car.

"I think you need to take a break, Booth," I told him, a bit surprised that I managed to string together a coherent utterance considering that most of the neurons in my body were firing in response to the wave of sexually-arousing stimuli—the sight of him, his well-structured body and the manly dirtiness that covered it, the sound of his deep voice and the pheromones that, even if I couldn't actually smell them at that distance, my body seemed to be hungering for anyway.

"Are you okay there, Bones?" he asked me, his mouth twisting into a crooked grin as he pushed himself off his creeper and stood up, reaching for a package of degreasing hand-wipes he'd set nearby. He wiped off his hands, tossing the used wipe carelessly to the side as he walked up to me and took the bottle of Gatorade from my hands. "I have a couple of more things to do out here, you know, and..." His voice seemed to waver a little, almost as if he was biting back a laugh, then trailed off.

Our eyes met and for a couple of seconds, we held each other's gaze, his flickering brown eyes narrowing slightly before he looked away.

He twisted the cap off the Gatorade and leaned his head back, draining most of its contents in a few large gulps as I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down with each swallow.

He grunted softly and paused his drinking for a moment to pull up the bottom hem of his dusty, grease-streaked tank T-shirt, exposing his sweat-slicked abdomen and chest in the process. The moment I saw the firm rim of his navel and the faint shadow of hair under it that vanished beneath the waistband of his cut-off shorts, I felt a raw shiver pass through me and the throbbing between my legs begin in earnest. My eyes roamed upward and I saw a quick glimpse of his nipples—those wonderful, delicious, flat little male nipples that I love to nip with my teeth when I'm kissing my way down his chest—and I let out a tiny sigh that came out sounding a bit like a moan.

Letting the hem of his shirt fall casually over his bared belly, Booth looked up at me with an arched eyebrow and a smirk, then waggled the Gatorade bottle in his hand as if to gauge how much more of the electrolyte drink he had left. He brought the bottle to his mouth again, peering over the lip of the bottle as he hesitated for a few moments, watching me for a second before tilting the bottle back to finish it off.

"I think you're done for now," I said in a low voice as I reached for his hand and pulled him towards the door to the utility room.

He swallowed the last of his Gatorade, dropping the empty bottle on the concrete floor of the garage as he followed me in, grinning at me with the kind of dark-eyed, lascivious smile that he knew unwound me every time.

"Mmmm," he murmured as he jerked the door to the garage closed behind us. He took a step towards me, sliding his thigh between my legs and pinning me against the side of the washing machine as he cocked his head to the side. "You like it dirty, Bones?" he said in a low, wicked drawl as he licked his lips. "Don't ya?"

"Fuck yes," I replied, my voice a low rasp as his face suddenly leaned in close to mine, his lips hovering a mere inch or two from my own—close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my cheek. "You know I do."

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**A/N: **_So I stepped a bit out of my usual comfort zone for this one, writing from Brennan's POV, but I had an image in my head that I simply couldn't do justice to any other way._

_I hope you enjoyed that one, but don't keep me in the dark—share your thoughts. Leave a review. Come on. If you thought this little scene was as sexy as I did, surely you can spare a moment to let me know as much. Did any particular image, moment or morsel "grab" you more than the others? Let me know. _

_**Editorial note**__**: **__Props and thanks to the inimitable __**threesquares **__for furnishing her insight this morning on very short notice! _


	2. Chapter 2

**Dirty**

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**By:** dharmamonkey  
**Rated:** M  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own jack. I am, however, interested in renting Booth. A five-hour minimum would apply.

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**A/N: **_Some readers wanted to know what happened after Brennan dragged a sweaty, grimy Booth into the house. Not wanting to violate the Geneva Convention prohibition against torture, I am willing to let you see what happened next. If you're interested, that is.__  
_

**Unf alert: **_You know what this is and why it's here. If you don't care to read about adults engaged in adult activities, or your mom and dad would be upset if they found out you did, then you should stop here. For the rest of you, you know what you want. Caroline said it best: "So why are you still here?" _

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**Chapter Two**

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Of course I planned it that way.

Or, perhaps, one might say that I _engineered_ the situation to play out that way, carefully ensuring that all the necessary elements for my desired scenario were in place before I set my plan in motion.

I went out for brunch that morning with Angela. She was a bit flummoxed when I told her I wanted to have brunch on Saturday rather than observing the normal ritual of having brunch on Sunday. I told her I had my reasons and she must have intuitively surmised that I was planning something to do with Booth because as soon as I told her that, she pursed her lips and said, _"ooh." _In the past, Angela would have followed that nasal "ooh" with a demand that I divulge the lurid details of my plan, but at some point after Booth and I embarked on a relationship of a more personal nature, she realized that her efforts were futile, that no amount of asking for details was going to induce me into giving them to her, and thereafter she stopped asking. However, the obligatory "ooh" remained a frequently-used part of her repertoire when it came to discussions or revelations potentially related to Booth and me engaging in sexual contact of some kind.

I'd told Booth on Friday night that I was going out for brunch the following morning, and suggested that, since we weren't going to be hosting Parker that weekend, Saturday might be a good opportunity for him to do some work on the Chevelle. He'd given me an odd little look—the kind of crunch-browed, eyes-askance, half-grin that he's given me a hundred times before when he suspected there was more to a situation than I had revealed to him but was willing to let the matter drop without pressing me further—and then promptly went into the garage to inventory the supplies he needed to pick up from AutoZone in the morning.

When I got back from brunch with Christine, who at eighteen months old was capable of sitting through a two-hour meal without fussing too much as long as I brought her some toys to play with, I promptly went upstairs and put her down for her afternoon nap. From that point, I knew I had two hours to lure Booth back into the house and have my way with him before we would be interrupted by the demands of our child.

So it was with a certain amount of satisfaction that I smiled when Booth slammed the garage door shut and prowled towards me with a dark-eyed, predatory look on his stubbled face. I was extremely aroused after admiring his dirty, greasy, sweaty, masculine form as he rolled out from underneath the old Chevelle and hearing his low, sexy, seductive voice ask me, "You like it dirty, Bones?"

I could feel my heart racing as he moved in, pressing his hip against mine and pinning me against the side of the washing machine. He turned his head, licked his lips—those delicious lips of his that have explored every inch of my body and driven me to the edge of oblivion a thousand times as they kissed, teased, nipped and sucked my most sensitive places—and leaned in to kiss me, filling my nostrils with the spicy, musky smell of his sweat which was edged with a faint undertone of petroleum distillates. I felt a wet pulse between my legs and a breathy sigh escape from my lips. But it was when he slid his leg between my thighs, parting them with a soft grunt on his part and an unmistakable moan of want on my end, that I was sure that if I had to wait another minute before feeling him inside of me, I might just lose my mind.

"Fuck yes," I rasped as I felt his lips brush against mine. His face was so close to mine, and his eyes so near to mine, that when I looked at him, all I saw was his pitch-colored eyes peering at me from beneath the edge of the heavy mantle of his prominent brow—his _supraorbital torus, _my sputtering brain said—and all I could hear (other than the blood roaring in my ears) was the sound of his breaths, which rose and fell in pants.

"You know I do," I said, my last word swallowed up by Booth's hungry kiss.

His mouth covered mine and I felt his tongue slide across my lips, searching and sweeping through my mouth, twirling briefly against my own tongue before I reached up, touching the edge of his jaw with my fingertips, scraping my fingernails against the two days' worth of stubble on his face. He pulled his lips away from mine, just enough for him to draw a breath, then jerked his hips against me as he dove in again, his mouth grasping as I felt his hot breath on my upper lip. When he thrust his lower body against mine, I felt the very distinct bulge of his erection brushing against my thigh because the fabric of my own clothing was very, very thin.

My skin flushed and I felt as though I was on fire, and, metaphorically speaking, I was—after planning this opportunity, thinking about it all evening the night before, and admittedly, during my brunch with Angela, I walked into that garage already burning for him, and so the moment I felt his skin touch mine as he reached under the skirt of my sun dress and drew his hand along the outside edge of my thigh, he seared me.

"Oh God," I gasped, pulling away from his kiss when I felt his fingertips slid over my hip and reach around, palming my ass and squeezing it as a ragged growl escaped between his gritted teeth.

"You're not wearing any underwear," he said, his low voice rough enough to sound menacing if it weren't for the fact that I knew better and recognized it as the way his voice darkened when he was highly aroused. The darkening of his voice always signaled a shift, a point when the tenderness in his touch evaporated away in favor of a want so aggressive and so primal that nothing would stand in the way of him getting what he wanted:

_Me._

And that—_that_—was what I wanted. I wanted to be wanted like that. I wanted him to crave me like that, and to take me that way, not caring where we were or what we looked like or what we'd been doing just moments before, because none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that he was a strong, sexy, rugged, passionate man who wanted only one thing, which was to fuck me senseless, as hard and as deeply as he could, as soon as humanly possible.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, whatever tiny dark corner of my mind was still capable of rational thought, I was glad that he had wiped the grease and dirt from his hands before I dragged him into the house. His other hand slipped under my dress and both of his big hands cupped my hips, his fingertips pressing into my ass while his thumbs stroked roughly over the widest part of my pelvis.

"You wanted this," he growled, punctuating his words with a firm squeeze that made my head drop back as yet another wave of arousal washed over me. I felt his stubbled jaw brush against the side of my neck as he nipped at the skin at the place where my neck and my shoulder meet, in the indentation just above my collarbone in a place called the _supraclavicular fossa_, his lips closing around my skin and sucking it into his mouth just enough that he could nip at it with his front teeth.

"Yes," I sighed.

I drew in a sharp breath each time I felt his mouth nip and mark me as he worked his way across my collarbone to the hollow at the base of my throat—the _fossa jugularis sternalis _or suprasternal notch—which I knew was one of his favorite places. He rolled his hips forward and pressed into me as his mouth came to rest over my suprasternal notch, his tongue darting out to lick the inside of that hollow space before his lips closed over it and he kissed it, scraping his teeth over the fleshy edge of the notch.

My head was spinning and I felt almost light-headed as I lost myself in the feel of his mouth working me over, so much so that I didn't really notice his hands had migrated up from my ass, along the sides of my torso to my breasts. The swipe of his thumbs over the points of my nipples was met with another wet pulse between my legs as I heard him grunt at the realization that not only was I wearing no underwear, I had discarded my bra, too. The only thing standing between him and my naked body was the light blue sun dress with its tiny pattern of lilac and yellow florettes.

It was as if he read my mind, because he cupped his big, calloused hands over my breasts, squeezing them once, then his hands fell away, leaving me momentarily breathless as my body yearned to feel his touch again. His hands closed around my hips again and I felt him kissing his way up the middle of my throat to the underside of my jaw, nipping at the bit of skin and flesh at the juncture between my neck and jaw, a place I knew as the _submandibular triangle _but which he knew as one of my most sensitive places, a place he had discovered quite by accident a few weeks after we began sleeping together and which he loved in part because he could feel my moans vibrating against his lips as he sucked at the skin, eliciting moan after moan from me as each nip sent a raw tingle racing up my spine.

No sooner had his lips pulled away from my skin than I felt a gush of air against the back of my legs as he kicked the utility room door shut and slammed my back against it—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me gasp and look up at him. Booth's mouth hung open, his tongue lolling over his teeth as he stood there, his smoldering, ravenous eyes raking over me as his chest rose and fell with each heavy breath he took. I returned his hungry gaze with one of my own, my eyes following the vein that ran over the upper edge of his flexed bicep and tracing the outline of his arm, along his grease-streaked forearm and finally, as I turned my head to the side, to his hand which was pressed flat against the door.

I turned back to him and saw him licking his lips as he slowly brought his other hand up, his forefingers stroking along the smooth, sheer cotton blend fabric of my dress. I quickly reached up with both hands and grabbed the bottom hem of his undershirt, which was soaked through in places with sweat, streaked with automotive lubricant and mottled with brown and black smears of dust and dirt. I swiped my middle finger across the damp skin of his belly before I tugged at the shirt.

"Take it off," I muttered as he took a half-step backwards and raised his arms so I could peel the filthy undershirt off of him.

As soon as I'd tossed the dirty garment aside, he moved in again and leaned into his hands as they hemmed me in on each side. I watched a bead of sweat dribble down the side of his neck and along the space between his pectoral muscles, over his abdomen to his navel, where it came to rest. A part of me wanted to lick that little bead of sweet, salty sweat out of his navel, but as my gaze fell on the faint shadow of fine hair below his navel that vanished beneath the waistband of his boxers, that thought quickly fell from my mind and I reached for the button of his cut-off shorts. Thumbing it open, I jerked his zipper down, roughly enough that I might have hurt him had he not been wearing any underwear, but I was so aroused and so desperate to feel him and see him and touch him and be fucked by him, I didn't care. I pulled those cut-off shorts over his narrow hips along with his boxers, unable to resist smiling as he hissed at the sensation of his boxers sliding over his erection. He looked down and watched his own cock spring free from his pants, then pushed off of the door and again took a half-step back as he toed off his old running shoes—which he'd been wearing without socks—and wriggled out of his pants.

He was naked. And God, did he look amazing, every inch of him covered with sweat, the smell of him filling my nose and making my whole body burn with want. Seeing his hard cock sticking straight out away from his body as he stepped towards me again, I groaned. I wanted him to take me, for him to peel away the last tatters of the veil of his civility and fuck me, hard, right there against that door.

"You wanna get fucked?" he grunted as his hands slipped under my dress again.

I felt my skin flash hot, and I knew that all of the small capillaries nearest the outer layer of my skin were in a state of vasocongestion as a result of the increased blood flow throughout my body, which in turn made my skin flush.

A quiet growl rattled in Booth's throat as he saw the area above my breasts pinken, and the sight of it seemed to arouse him further. He quickly pulled my dress up and over my head, letting it fall to the cold tile floor in a silent whisper. He must have seen my eyes widen a little, because his lips parted on one side of his mouth as his dark eyes flickered with something I can only describe as laughter.

"You been holding back on me, Bones?" he asked, grabbing me by the wrists and pulling my arms up over my head, pinning my hands to the door with his own as he tilted his head to the side and licked his lips. "You got some kind of car repair shop sex fantasy, Bones?" he asked me. "Like some kind of kinky porno?"

I found myself somewhat surprised that he could formulate that complex of an utterance, because as far as I was concerned, he'd reduced me to the verbal fluency of a four year-old. Before I could answer, he taunted me again. He knew that the only thing that aroused me more than hearing him talk dirty was to be taunted, to be teased or challenged by him using that dirty, uncouth, working-class Philly mouth of his. He didn't give me a chance to puzzle over an answer before he grunted out another taunt.

"You wanna get your brains fucked out by some knuckle-dragging grease monkey with a big, hard dick, huh?"

He leaned in close, close enough that when I turned my head, I was able to breathe in a long, deep whiff of his scent from his sweaty underarm, the hair under which was soaked and matted with perspiration I knew was rich in his pheromones. I felt the tip of his cock brush against my naked belly and felt our foreheads graze against one another as we both looked down at the place where we would soon be joined.

For a moment, the sexual tension crackled in the air between us but neither of us moved or spoke, and the only sound in that room was the sound of our heavy, labored respiration as our respective bodies screamed for satisfaction.

Finally, after what seemed like minutes but was almost certainly just a matter of a few seconds, I looked up at him, my eyes skimming over the features of his face which I had ago memorized—his oval face with its heavy brow, dark, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, a robust, stubble-covered jaw and a slightly cleft chin—and which were glazed with a layer of sweat and, in places, the dark sheen of motor oil. A sharp pulse of desire flashed between my legs, so intensely it was almost painful as my body clenched emptily, and it was then, finally, that I opened my mouth to speak again.

"Do it," I said to him, wanting desperately to reach down and touch his hard, hot, silky cock with one hand and roll his balls in the palm of my other but groaning in frustration as he suddenly tightened his grip on my wrists and pressed my hands even more firmly against the door. "You want it," I said. "Take it. Take me."

Booth's eyes narrowed to fierce slits and he tilted his head, shifting his jaw from one side to the other as if he were appraising me, sizing me up somehow.

"You wanna be fucked, huh?"

He held my hands in place with one hand, letting the other drop into the slender space between us, his thick fingers lightly skimming over my navel and the round shape beneath—a small curve that, a year and a half after the birth of our daughter, remained as a reminder of the way my body was forever changed by motherhood, much as I myself have.

"You still drive me as crazy today," he rasped, threading his fingers through my pubic hair as his middle finger parted my slippery cleft, "as you did the day I met you."

A moment of silence was pierced by my own gasp as his long, thick middle finger slid all along the length of me, from the lower margin of my opening all the way up to my clit.

"More even," he said, letting his other hand fall to my hip, releasing my hands from where they'd been pinned against the door. "More and more, every day, Bones."

He leaned in, squeezing the flesh of my hip with one hand, rolling his finger in a circle around the edge of my clit as he brushed his dry lips over mine, not kissing me exactly, but letting me feel the rough scrape of his two-day beard as his chin passed over my own.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he said. "And, no matter how many times I have you, I can never get enough of you."

I arched my back away from the door as his finger flicked across my clit. I cried out through clenched teeth as he stroked me, up and down the length of me, again and again as my breaths quickened and turned shallow as my legs began to shake. He knew I was close, and I felt him loosen his grip on my pelvis as I leaned against him for support. He slid that magic finger of his down to rim me, teasing me with that finger as the big pad of his calloused thumb drew quick circles over my clit. The two sensations sent me headlong into a spiral of pleasure, circling so close to release but seemingly unable to get there until he lowered his head against my neck and began to lay small, sucking kisses along a line from from earlobe down to my collarbone. Each kiss drove through me like a railroad spike, hard and deep, until he finally reached the notch at the base of my neck. The moment I felt the tip of his tongue dart into my suprasternal notch, the moan of his own pleasure vibrating through his lips into my skin so that all I felt was a wave of humming and sucking and licking—that was the moment I broke. My mouth fell open in a couple of sighs punctuated by a loud grunt as my whole body shuddered against him.

"Oh fuck, Bones," he groaned, his breath warming the already-flushed skin along my clavicle.

Kissing his way back up my neck as he let his hand fall away from my center, he murmured something against my skin. 'Sweet nothings' perhaps, because in my haze, I couldn't quite make out what he was saying. All I managed to take away from his murmurings was, "...so fucking much...can't believe...so beautiful...love you...don't think...need to...right now..."

My chest was still heaving with every breath as I slowly coasted down from the peak of my release when I felt Booth's knee again part my thighs. His hand reached to the back of my thigh and he grunted, patting the back of my thigh a couple of times, urging me to raise my leg. I did so, lifting my leg up three or four inches perhaps before I felt his broad, hard forearm slip underneath my knee and he yanked my leg up, draping my leg over the crook of his arm as he reached down with his free hand and fisted his erect cock. He stroked himself a couple of times before he finally pressed forward, leaning into me as he guided his cock between my legs.

"Oh my God," he moaned as he hesitated, leaving just the tip of him inside of me as he raised his eyes to meet mine. "You feel so..." He let go of himself and slid his hand around to the small of my back. "So fucking good..."

He rolled his hips back slightly then, bracing me against his hand, drove into me, all the way into me, in one firm stroke. When he was buried balls-deep inside of me, he jerked up once and sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, then rocked his hips back and drove up and in again.

"Oh fuck, Booth," I sighed as I felt his hard, thick cock open me up, stretching me wide with every upward stroke, leaving my pussy empty and desperately wanting as he withdrew before he rolled those hips back and drove into me again.

I could feel his balls swinging with each pounding stroke, brushing up against the underside of my ass each time he buried himself inside of me. Again and again I felt him fill me up with his thick cock, spearing into me with each grunt-punctuated jerk of his hips. Again and again I breathed deeply, filling my nose with the musky, clove-like smell of his sweat, which dripped down his forehead, each bead carving a tiny swath through the dark, dusty smear on his brow on its way down.

Feeling him this way—his cock penetrating me and filling me, his sweaty, grease-smeared skin sticking to me, his protective hand holding me steady and keeping my back from slamming into the door with each of his grunting, growling strokes, his stubbled face rubbing against my cheek as he nuzzled into my neck—made me feel exquisitely feminine, warm and wanted as he pummeled into me.

I felt him swell a bit inside of me, the fingers of his protective hand clawing a little at my back as his body began to tense. His grunts and growls gave way to long, low, peaking groans as he pulled his face away from my neck and opened his eyes. His mouth fell open with a sigh and his jaw worked as I felt the muscles of his abdomen suddenly contract against my thumb, which until that moment I didn't realize was even touching him, while the muscles of his lower back quivered beneath my fingers.

"Oh God," he moaned, rolling his hips back one more time and driving up as deeply as he could inside of me, holding himself there as I felt vaguely the warm spurts of his release.

"Unnnnnggggfff..."

He jerked himself in all the way to the hilt with a throaty grunt as the last pulses faded and the muscles of his face, arms and chest slackened.

We both stood there, panting heavily, each of us covered in sweat—both our own and the other person's—while our bodies twitched and quivered, his in the wake of a thundering orgasm, and mine because suddenly, the cool air from the A/C vent above us hit my sweat-damp skin and sent a chill rippling through me.

After a minute, Booth squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, blinking away the haze as he gently released my elevated leg, reaching out with the arm that had been holding it to brace me as I wobbled a little and struggled to regain my sense of equilibrium.

"Oh my God," he said again, pursing his lips in the shape of an 'o' and expelling a sharp breath as he took a half step back, his now-flaccid cock slipping out of me. He, too, seemed somewhat off-balance as he gazed back at me with a warm smile.

He glanced down at his arms and saw the smears of black and brown on his skin, then reached up and, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, saw the grime on his hand. His eyes swiveled downward and he looked at my waist, reaching out and stroking two fingers over a grease streak on my side where I presumed a wide smear of sweat, grease and dirt now resided.

"I made a mess of you," he said with a sheepish grin.

Turning my gaze to the dirty, muscular forearm now resting on my hip, I smirked and said, "And you got automotive grease on me."

He threw his head back and laughed, and I laughed, too.

"You love it, though," he said with a snicker.

"Mmmm..."

* * *

**A/N:** _Fic writers never write stories based on their personal fantasies. *smirk* I hope that little doubleshot of Boothy hotness, viewed through the eyes of Brennan (that lucky wench), was pleasing to you._

_But don't leave me guessing. I don't often write from Brennan's POV–in fact, I've only done it a couple of other times. I took a real chance with this one, stepping outside of my comfort zone (writing from Booth's perspective) to tell a slightly different kind of story. So tell me how I did. I want to know if her voice rang true here. _

_Please. Let me know what you think. Leave a review._

**NOTE: Special announcement for Dharmasera fans****! **_If you've been following Dharmasera's Angel/Bones crossover series, the 8th story in the saga, "**A Would-Be Reunion**," has started to post. Look for it under the profile page of my coauthor, _**Lesera128**.

_Last but not least, thanks for reading!_


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